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"But..."

"No buts, little agent."

The door closed behind her.

I slowly stood. My knee made a faint cracking sound from kneeling so long on the hard floor. The warmth where her fingertip touched still lingered in my palm. I looked down at my right hand. Nothing was there. But I felt like an invisible brand had been pressed into my palm.

I closed my fist, drawing that warmth into my palm.

When I pushed open the door and walked into the booth, the scene inside made me pause.

Leon was sprawled across the table, poking strawberries with his fork. Isabella flipped through the menu looking bored. Ruby sat in the innermost spot against the wall, one hand propping her chin, face turned toward the window.

All three looked like they hadn't just been through a negotiation outside.

I walked over and sat across from Isabella, picked up the strawberry Napoleon menu, and flipped to the second page.

"Leon, this chocolate lava cake looks pretty good too." I heard myself say it, tone as steady as discussing quarterly reports in the boardroom.

"Really? Can I have it?" Leon's head shot up, gray-green eyes bright as glass marbles.

"Ask your mother."

Leon immediately turned to look at Ruby.

Ruby sat in the innermost part of the booth, arms crossed, watching me expressionlessly. That look still carried the coldness from the corridor. But besides that, something extremely subtle had changed.

She turned away, looking at Manhattan's early autumn street scene outside the window.

"No. We agreed on two today. You already ate them." She spoke to the window, tone flat.

Leon's mouth drooped, but he didn't cry or fuss. He turned back to keep poking strawberries on his plate.

Isabella closed the menu. Looked at me, then at Ruby. Finally rolled her eyes dramatically and stabbed her fork viciously into her salad. But a curve she couldn't suppress bent her mouth. I caught it.

I pretended not to notice. Looked down and unfolded the napkin in front of me, folding it into a neat square, pressing it beside my plate. When my fingertip brushed the napkin edge, it still carried the lingering warmth from her fingertip.

Some things couldn't be rushed.

This wild rose spent four years putting roots down in Venice's stone cracks, growing thorned branches and hardened leaves. I spent forty-eight years learning to lower my head and see her. What I needed to do now was crouch down and wait for her to get used to me existing in the soil beside her roots again.

No watering. No forcing growth. No trying to transplant her to my territory.

Just crouching here. Waiting for her to remember that buried beneath this soil was the wedding ring I lost four years ago.

Chapter 31

Ruby

Early autumn morning in Manhattan wore a thin veil of mist.

The tree-lined path at Central Park's southern end lay buried under golden leaves, the air thick with roasted hazelnuts and damp earth. I held Leon's small hand as we walked slowly across the soft grass.

The little guy wore a warm yellow fleece onesie, his short legs pumping with enthusiasm, clutching a half-eaten cinnamon bagel. "Mamma, are there mallards in that lake?"

"There are, but let's sit on the bench for a bit first." I tugged the scarf higher, covering Leon's pink-tipped nose.

But as we rounded the fountain corner where pigeons gathered, a tall figure stood by the bench.